


Lightfly 1693

by wheel_pen



Series: Immortals [2]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and River get into a little trouble with the locals in Salem, Massachusetts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightfly 1693

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Immortals are powerful Earth beings who have children with mortals and are supposed to take care of them. The different clans are inspired by various movies and TV shows.  
> 2\. The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.  
> 3\. I own nothing, and I appreciate the chance to play in these universes.

_Salem, Massachusetts, 1693_

The crowd stared back at him, afraid yet determined, and Simon felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t going to convince them to let River go. He couldn’t come up with the words that would cut through their terror-choked brains, that would make them see reason. On the other hand, why should they see reason when River’s abilities _were_ consistent with their ideas about witchcraft—she could read minds, see the future. And her spirit was too free for a town governed by fear of divine retribution. For all intents and purposes, River _was_ a witch. And they could not suffer a witch to live.

He took a step back, towards the stake, and stumbled over a branch of the firewood piled at its base. He looked up at his sister, tied in place, and she smiled beatifically down at him. “Simon, you’re so sweet.” As if this were a minor slight he had rushed to defend her over, a kind act on par with making her favorite dessert unexpectedly. He smiled a little back at her, because there was nothing he could say to cut through _her_ brain, either, to make her understand what was really going on. And maybe it was better she _not_ understand, really.

Simon clambered up the pile of brushwood to River’s side. The magistrate tensed, thinking he meant to untie her, but that would be foolish; they would never escape through this crowd. Instead he just put his arms around her, binding himself to her fate. The crowd stirred uneasily at this gesture of devotion—many of them knew him from his medical work among them, had had their lives saved by him in these three short months, and he knew some of them had begun to esteem him as a man of knowledge and compassion.

But that wasn’t enough. He knew they were now tallying up every odd habit he had—the frequent handwashing, the ritual of alcohol and fire he performed on his tools before use, his embrace of the natives’ medicinal herbs. This was not a time or a place to be different, to stand up against something—he could see that now, from the citizens who had already been tried and sentenced. He loved a witch and would not renounce her, and nothing else about him counted at all.

“If you have any special powers that I don’t know about,” he whispered in her ear, “now would be a good time to use them.”

She continued to smile. Only a witch would smile when she was tied to a stake. “Don’t worry, Daddy will come for us,” she told him confidently.

Simon pictured their father, white-haired, well-dressed, stern, pretentious. He had married the last Oracle and benefited from her advice for centuries, though he was arrogant enough to think he knew better sometimes, and now he was bitter because he couldn’t keep the new one in his grasp as well. No, Simon didn’t think he was coming for them, or that he knew or cared what they were up to.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against River’s, trying to still his heart and clear his mind while the chief magistrate pronounced the sentence. The smoky torches held aloft by his assistants were so close that Simon could smell the acridness of the burning pitch. It had been a dry summer—but that was good, a fast burning was better than a slow one.

One hand crept up to the back of River’s neck. With pressure applied to the right bundle of nerves, he could render her unconscious when the time came—maybe even break her neck. There was no time to _think_ about what he was thinking about, he had to concentrate on the placement of his fingers, the sequence of pressure points to hit—he would undoubtedly be rather distracted soon, what with being _set on fire_ , and he didn’t want her to feel any pain due to a mistake on his part. The stubborn voice of hope inside him refused to let him begin just yet, though—or maybe it was just fear, making his fingers icy-cold against her warm skin.

“This is a sad place,” River said suddenly, no longer smiling. “Why are you all so sad?” she asked the crowd in a pensive tone. “You should all be filled with joy, joy in the glory of creation around you.”

“We will have joy, when the servants of Satan are rooted out from among us,” the magistrate rejoined solemnly.

Wrong. Only babies laughed in Salem. It was the most joyless place Simon had ever seen. Why bother debating with a witch, anyway? It delayed the inevitable, though, and frankly Simon was all for that.

The magistrate apparently disagreed. “Light the fire,” he commanded. “Let the evil be purged from our village with the holy flame!”

Simon tightened his arm around River. He was suddenly worried about falling off the unsteady pile of brush—he wasn’t tied to the stake like she was. Their possible separation at the last moment seemed so wrong, so unbearable. He needed to stay beside her until the end.

The torches touched the base of the brushwood. He rested his hand on her neck. “I love you,” Simon told her, and began to squeeze.

A terrific noise rent the air, making everyone jump, and Simon’s eyes popped open. Mal and Zoe strode across the village green, guns in hand, the end of one smoking from the attention-getting shot it had fired. “Looks like we arrived just in time,” Mal noted with laconic tension. _Not really_ , Simon thought as the branches crackled under his feet. “What does that make us, Zoe?”

“Big d—n heroes, sir,” she replied flatly, her steely gaze stilling the stunned crowd.

The magistrate stepped forward, his mouth a thin line. “Good sir, if you and your slave have come to see the burning—“

Simon drew a breath of frustration and promptly started choking on the smoke. Sure enough, Zoe’s back got up about the ‘slave’ comment, threatening distraction from what Simon considered a more pressing concern. “Guys!” he shouted, trying to untie River while balanced on a pile of sticks that was burning out from under him. “I could use some help here!”

“What’s the matter, Doc?” Jayne cracked, appearing suddenly behind him. “Gettin’ a little hot under the collar?” He laughed heartily at his own pun and sliced cleanly through River’s bonds with his ridiculously huge knife. Half-unconscious, River started to tumble forward; Simon grabbed her and then they _both_ tumbled backwards, collapsing on the hard earth together. Jayne made sure they landed clear of the fire but stared down at them quizzically, as though he couldn’t figure out why they were rolling around on the ground like children.

The crowd had not failed to note their escape. “She is a witch!” the magistrate pointed out to Mal indignantly.

“Yeah, but she’s _our_ witch!” Mal shot back flippantly. “And we’re takin’ her back!”

“Get up,” hissed Jayne impatiently, dragging Simon to his feet, who dragged River to hers. “Come on, get on!” Roughly Jayne scooped the girl up and laid her across the saddle of his horse before climbing on himself; it was a gentlemanly thing to do, for him, Simon noted hazily as he awkwardly mounted another horse. His lungs still burned like they were breathing smoke, but he didn’t think the fire had actually touched either of them. He turned his horse to follow Jayne’s, which it wanted to do anyway, and they scattered the confused and panicking crowd as they swept past the flaming stake towards Mal and Zoe.

“Go go go!” Mal ordered unnecessarily as the two of them swung up onto their own conveniently-placed horses. Simon certainly had no immediate intention other than getting the h—l out of Salem, pun intended, and let Mal worry about whether the righteous citizens would chase them. It was miles to the sea, though, and as soon as they were clear Simon needed to check on River—

The clatter of hooves on wood jarred him suddenly and he realized the horses were racing right up the gangplank of the ship. Simon sat there, feeling immeasurably dull, while the others threw themselves from their horses and started barking orders to get the ship underway. The ship they shouldn’t be anywhere near, let alone on. Then Simon felt himself falling and hit the wooden deck hard; it was like his horse had melted underneath him, leaving him tangled up with—

“Ursuline?” he said blankly.

The impossibly beautiful nymph grinned at him. “That was so exciting! I’ve never been a horse before!”

“We can play horsey again tonight,” Jayne offered her lasciviously.

“Nymphs can turn into horses,” Simon realized. Perhaps he’d hit his head at some point.

Kaylee ran to him, her voice warm and light. “Simon honey! Are you okay? What happened to you?”

What indeed. “We just—“ He coughed hard and rolled across the deck searching for his sister. Inara was helping her to sit up but her head bobbled like a bell on a stick. “River? We were almost burned alive.” He crawled over to River to check her pulse and her eyes.

“You look all roughed up, too,” Kaylee observed with concern. “Couldn’t you—couldn’t you put no stop to it?” She sounded disturbed that it had gone so far.

“No, we couldn’t,” Simon told her, trying not to be sharp. He had tried to explain this before. “We can’t do things like you. We gave that up.”

“Here, have some water,” Shepherd Book pressed kindly. He was a far better holy man than the ones leading Salem to its destruction. Inara dabbed a damp cloth against River’s face, trying to wash off some of the smoky grime.

“She gonna be okay?” Kaylee worried, biting her lip. The fragility of her friends was something troubling she didn’t like to recall.

“She’ll be fine,” Simon assessed, rubbing the back of River’s neck. She would have a killer headache, though. “I hadn’t quite finished rendering her unconscious, so she should come to—“

“Well what’d you do a fool thing like _that_ for?” Jayne asked in disgust. As Simon glanced up at the other man to answer he saw they were slipping further and further away from the Massachusetts coast, and he was not sorry to see it go. “No wonder she was a dead weight to lug around!”

“I thought we were going to die a horrible death!” Simon tried to explain, feeling as though he shouldn’t have to. Anyway, what did Jayne care about the weight, he had physical strength far beyond Simon’s.

“You probably wouldn’t have died,” Mal reasoned as he reappeared on deck, flip but likely accurate.

“It would’ve been painful, though,” Simon added. The adrenaline was wearing off and his other injuries were beginning to hurt. One of the others would heal him, though. It was nice to be able to depend on that. River’s eyes fluttered open and Simon forgot everything else. “Are you alright?” he asked tentatively, not sure what kind of reaction she would have to this whole ordeal. He could never predict her reactions.

“Free as a flying fish,” she answered brightly, and he sighed with relief.

“That’s the last time you two are gettin’ shore leave,” Mal put in.

Simon sat back on the deck, suddenly exhausted. “No argument there.”

“I have fleas,” River announced with a frown, and the scrupulous kempt Inara struggled to keep her expression pleasant.

“We can take care of that,” Shepherd assured them quickly.

“Some Oracle _you_ are,” Mal went on, his gruffness born of genuine concern. “You didn’t predict gettin’ grilled like a piece of cod?”

“It was necessary,” River replied dismissively, which inspired considerable interest in everyone else. She was more concerned with itching, however. “I am hosting a complex society of beings,” she complained.

Inara helped her to stand. “Perhaps a bath!” she suggested quickly.

“Wait a minute, what do you mean, it was necessary?” Mal demanded, preventing the women from going below deck.

River gave him a look that suggested he just didn’t get it, but she wasn’t surprised. “Bonebright’s children had to be freed.”

“Bonebright? What?”

The pieces fell together in Simon’s mind. The little girl with the queer stare, the old woman who knew too much, the odd peddler with his prophetic words—“Some of the accused witches—they were Bonebright descendants,” he clarified slowly. “I didn’t realize—a magistrate from another town took them away, said they were ‘special cases’—“ He paused to think. “It must have been one of them.”

“We’re _all_ special,” River assured him, as one would a child. Jayne muttered something sarcastic under his breath. “You gave me a headache,” she added with a frown.

“It was—I had to!” Simon called helplessly after her, as Inara hustled her away insistently.

“You could really use a bath, too,” Kaylee pointed out helpfully. “You, um, want me to scrub your back?”

“No, that’s okay,” Simon sighed, still looking after River. The meaning of her comment went right over his head, as usual. “You can get rid of my clothes, though, if you want. The smoke will never come out of them.”

Kaylee took what she could get. “Sure, I’ll help you get rid of your clothes! Come on.”

Mal, meanwhile, was headed to the helm cabin. “Wash! Get me Bonebright!” he shouted. He wanted to know exactly why his people had been put in danger, _without_ his foreknowledge or consent.

**

They were nearly to Bermuda before Mal allowed the ship to slow to a natural pace and take aim for their next stop. He was angry and Inara couldn’t blame him, although she didn’t understand the specifics. Simon and River had been healed up and cleaned and were now as healthy as any of them, or they would be when they woke up. Sometimes with Mal all was well that ended well; but other times, something kept gnawing at him, and this was one of those times.

She lounged on the bed in their quarters, pretending to read, while he paced restlessly. He wanted to tell her something; that was why he kept wandering back in after wandering back out, guttering the lanterns with every swing of the door and splattering wax on the walls.

“Where’d this thing come from?” he asked suddenly, with irritation. He held a wooden carving of a man with a distinctive blocky head, plucked from a shelf.

“Rapa Nui,” she answered cautiously, waiting to see what he did with it. He stared at it a moment longer, then shrugged, put it down, and went back out on deck.

Over the course of a century or so, Inara would gradually move items from her own quarters into his, which they preferred to share. His taste ran to spare and eclectic, to put it politely, and she tried to warm the rooms, give them some kind of cohesiveness so they looked like a sane person lived there. Every once in a while he would catch on and claim she’d made the place stuffy and claustrophobic, and he’d dump everything of hers back in her room—plus a few things that _he_ had chosen, when he couldn’t separate his own taste from hers. Then she would start over again, migrating objects in one by one. Sometimes she thought he must have noticed the pattern and was just humoring her; but it wasn’t like Mal to humor people. It also wasn’t like him to search for patterns, though, to the keys for why things happened or why people acted the way they did. That was Inara’s specialty.

He came in again and the candles flickered wildly in the breeze, some snuffing out before they automatically relit themselves. She sighed and closed the book, then sat up on the bed. “Mal?” she called sweetly, and he turned with a preoccupied expression. “Could you undo this clasp for me. I think I’ll change.”

He rolled his eyes in a comfortably exasperated way and moved to stand behind her as she sat at her dressing table. “Great, I’m a nymph now,” he grumbled as he struggled with the fastener of her necklace. “ _Gorrammit_ , woman, does this piece of frippery need a lockpick?!” Immediately after complaining it came loose.

Inara caught the necklace at her throat with one hand and used the other to catch his at her shoulder, making eye contact with him in the mirror. She smiled and he half-smiled back, then thought of whatever was troubling him and the expression died. He let go and turned away from her, but now he couldn’t pretend there was nothing wrong. The subject had been opened and Inara turned in her seat to follow him expectantly.

“That _gorram_ doctor’s an idiot,” he muttered, pacing again. “Can’t hardly blame an Oracle for bein’ crazy, but he oughta know better!”

“How so?” Inara inquired. River had suggested they go to Salem, after all, and it wasn’t wise to second-guess the Oracle.

“The people in this village—buncha stiff, self-righteous, fear-mongering—“ He broke off, shaking his head. Inara got the point. “Had her _tied_ to a _stake_ on a brush pile. A _lit_ brush pile.” Inara bit her lip and looked away momentarily; they were both sadly familiar with the tendency of humans to destroy what they didn’t understand. “And where was the Doc, huh?” Mal went on indignantly. “He was right up there with her! Not tied up, not bein’ accused hisself, just—standin’ up there like—“ He sighed. “Like he was goin’ down with the ship.”

Inara smiled a little. “Who does that sound like?” she teased.

“It was stupid,” Mal insisted. “It was like—watchin’ the children doin’ something you know is gonna hurt ‘em.”

“Simon isn’t a child,” Inara pointed out smoothly. “He knew what he was doing. He was trying to help his sister as best he could.”

“Yeah.” Mal dropped down on the bed and Inara went to him, her gown fluid in the soft light. “He coulda done something else. He coulda come lookin’ for us,” he suggested, gazing up at her.

“He couldn’t leave River.”

“They both coulda got hurt real bad,” Mal added. “Maybe even died, I don’t know. But he stood up there with her when he coulda left. To get help.”

There was a distinct note of admiration in Mal’s tone, however much he tried to hide it. “He’s very brave,” Inara agreed, running her hand through Mal’s tousled hair. “It’s harder to be brave when you can get hurt.”

“Stupid,” Mal muttered, unwilling to give in. “’Course you were pretty brave when confronted by those fleas,” he deadpanned, and she knew he’d gotten the problem out of his system. For the moment anyway. She obligingly rolled her eyes and pushed his arm, then laughed when he pulled her closer.

“There were lice, too,” she complained.

“All manner of creepy-crawlies,” he acknowledged with a chuckle. “Very brave indeed.”


End file.
